


Frippery, Gimcrack and Seamanship, pg-13 Patrick O'Brien seafaring novels

by bornof_sorrow (wintersfire)



Category: Master and Commander - Patrick O'Brian
Genre: Fanfiction, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersfire/pseuds/bornof_sorrow





	Frippery, Gimcrack and Seamanship, pg-13 Patrick O'Brien seafaring novels

  


  


**Title** : Frippery, Gimcrack and Seamanship  
 **Author** : [](http://bornof-sorrow.livejournal.com/profile)[ **bornof_sorrow**](http://bornof-sorrow.livejournal.com/)  
 **Pairing, Characters** : Jack, brief mention Jack/OFC, mention of Stephen  
 **Rating** : pg-13,   
 **Spoilers** : pre-Master and Commander, but parts set later. No spoilers for specific books  
 **Disclaimer** : The seafaring novels are the property of Patrick O'Brien. No harm is intended, nor profit anticipated, from this story in the same book!verse  
 **Length** : 4300  
 **Warning** : battle scene with bloodshed and minor character death  
 **Summary** : Ever wondered how Jack was demoted from midshipmen or how he was restored? Wonder no longer...  
 **Author's Note** :This was written for a series of related prompts from my brother and fellow PO'B fan. He asked for: Jack losing midshipman status, the hands talking about Lucky Jack and how he saved their skin, Jack's first 'cello lesson and an early action scene. Phew! Hope it delivers.  
 **Author's Note 2** : the linstock was not much in use by this time, but the artistic licence was necessary to the story!  
With many thanks to [](http://feverfewmole.livejournal.com/profile)[ **feverfewmole**](http://feverfewmole.livejournal.com/) for alpha and beta, who is not to blame for any remaining flaws

 

Able Seaman Archie Tullet slapped his thigh and choked back his laugh, exploiting the gleeful faces around him, drawing out the moment of wholehearted attention like a master bard - though he could no more frame what he did in those terms than he could fly safely down from the main topgallant. “And then, says he, _then_ , with the piss still not shook off the end of his yard, he looks the lieutenant in the eye and says...”

“No, no,” Billy Erskine flapped his hand at Tullet and drowned out his speech with a deep rumbling voice which had earned him his nickname of Big Billy, “that weren't the way it was, now. Hush your nonsense Tullet, and let me tell 'ee how it was. T'was back in 1793 or mebbe '94, an' Lucky Jack worn't no more than sixteen, though he was already a strapping lad, having an eye ready then for the petticoats, if you foller me. Anyway, it started when...”

Sensing a long tale, the lads settled back against their leanings, be it barrel, post or lashed coil and made themselves ready for a tale of Lucky Captain Jack. More than one drew out a whittled pipe and prepared to be entertained.

Big Billy nodded his satisfaction at the settling of his audience and did not pause his account, although he, too, fixed his limbs in as most comfortable a manner as his present circumstances would allow and carried forth with his lively tale...

~~~

“Mr. Aubrey! I see that you have again failed to heed my warnings, sir, and find yourself the worse for wear. We are barely out of port and you have been in your cups yet again. What do you have to say for yourself, sir?”

Jack knew better than to argue the point. Old Douglas might be over forty, by God, but he was devilishly cunning when it came to the subterfuge of midshipmen. Jack straightened his shoulders, and another wave of nausea washed over him. His empty stomach roiled with bile, so he dropped his head whilst trying to retain a pretence of looking civil at the Captain, but he knew it was of little use. He'd been warned, and this time he'd be for it. He wondered whether, if he begged enough, the Captain would indulge him in not writing home to his father on the matter? General Aubrey would barely turn a hair at the drinking, but the trouble to Old Douglas would not be so easily dismissed.

“I see that you are unable to offer an explanation, Mr Aubrey. How many times have I warned you to steer clear of heavy drink until such time as you can do your duty unaffected?”

Jack said nothing, every effort joined in trying not to vomit, which activity the Captain had found him engaged in and which, it appeared, would soon lead to his downfall. It was no good: The _Resolution_ tilted with a heave that he would not even notice on another day but on this was too boisterous to be endured. Vomit rushed from his mouth like a compass to North, and he barely avoided the soft black leather and silver buckles of the Captain's shoes.

The heaves took hold of his body with such vigour that Jack was only able to stay clear of the shoes but not yet able to reach over the side; there was a hushed silence as the crew on deck turned with delighted satisfaction to watch this entertainment. Jack did not blame them; this spectacle was so disgraceful that no man could fail to be fascinated.

Vomit spewed out of his mouth in a spray which Jack, with an expert glance, recognised would take some time to swab. He could taste sour rum and wondered where he'd managed to find an apple the night before. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the horror-struck gape of Billy Sutton, sometime co-conspirator and firm friend, on this occasion innocent of all and any blame.

Jack wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and straightened up again, not even daring to close his eyes against the tremor of nausea which quivered through his straining body. Every fibre of his being wanted to spring forward and move the Captain away from the evidence of his shame – dash it, his fellows would never let him forget it, even now he cringed at the thought of his possible nicknames: Green Jack, Sea-sick Jack, Jack Spew.

Then, with crawling horror, Jack saw Polly stagger out from below decks, rubbing her head and trailing her flimsy shawl, as obviously a good-hearted strumpet as ever there was. A gleeful expectation arose across the plain sanded planking as every man above decks turned to witness his destruction. Some were puzzled, some grinning and some zealous, but to a man everyone was focused absolutely on Captain Douglas, waiting for the moment when he noticed Polly.

Jack saw the instant fleeting disbelief was replaced with frank disgust, and Douglas turned back to Jack and swept his eyes along to his lieutenant. “Mr Arrowsmith, have Plaice prepare the barge. Unfortunately, we have acquired an unsuitable guest who must be escorted back into harbour. See to it, man.”

Captain Douglas gestured for waisters to swab and turned to Jack. “Mr Aubrey. Come with me, sir.”

~~~

Able Seaman Aubrey sighed deeply and carried on stitching sailcloth. It was not the first sigh he had uttered whilst engaged in this task, and Tullet lifted his head from the workings of his own deft hands. “Why Spew, stop mooning about like a lass and sew.”

“But, Tullet, nearly six months as a matlow, and the Captain shows no sign of thinking me punished enough.”

Archie didn't so much as pause in his work, but he slid his glance across to Erskine and thence to Jack.”C'mon lad could be worse, you could be a matey. Buck up. Do something brave and reckless, and you'll soon be a reefer again. Shilling to a moidore you'll be back in your quarters afore you know it.”

Erskine, hands busy at their shared task, nodded his approbation of Tullet's wise guidance with all the solemnity of a black-capped judge.

Jack considered these pearls of wisdom, and soon his natural cheerfulness re-asserted itself, mastering his momentary gloom. He had his stout limbs, his sea-legs, and life aboard was full of chances. “I'm sorry I spoke so chuff, Tullet. 'Tis an ill-wind that spoils the broth.”

“Aye,” answered Tullet, “Show Cap'n Douglas you'll stick by and soon enough he'll judge the pudding by its fruit.”

Jack smiled and clapped Archie across the shoulder, causing him to pitch forward, but his natural sea-balance corrected his position immediately, and he didn't so much as drop a stitch.

Archie resumed his tall tale, and Jack did his part in nods and wide eyes.

Their hands flew across their work as the sun slid lower in the sky, sending streaks of ruby, crimson and violet across the horizon, and soon the sounds of a low shanty could be heard from below decks. Jack hummed along, ambition briefly at rest beneath his good humour.

~~~

Jack's days and nights were not vastly different, on the surface of things, as an able seaman rather than a midshipman. The watches and gun drill ruled his life in the same way they ever had aboard _Revolution_ , and whilst Jack missed the scant luxuries of the midshipmen's table and the company of his own class, he was far from despair amongst the hands. He was as able as the next man to fly up the rigging, swab a deck or do his duty; in addition, his knowledge of rowdy songs and his willingness to write a word home for the men as a midshipman held him in good stead. He'd felt the hard stare of the Captain from time to time such as made him think he might be reinstated one day. He longed for it to be so.

Distant as he was, Jack had long felt the pressure of his father's expectation these many years at sea, and Jack knew he would wish him re-instated. He had no doubt that through whatever unpredictable correspondence he could muster the General was working on the Captain, and Old Douglas was finding to his cost that the General had admirable grit in sticking to a course of action, whether it be pursuing a fox, bargaining for excellent horseflesh or charming his creditors: once his father made up his mind up on such a thing, he was unyielding, like that Hercules fellow.

Jack allowed his mind to drift upon that theme as he went about his tasks automatically. That Hercules chap had proven himself by great doings with apples and dogs, and there was something in that.

That was it!

Jack would look about him and find some heroic task. Then Old Douglas would have him back in his uniform sharpish. Yes, he'd prove a tree by its eating or he wasn't Jack Aubrey. He hogged out the deck and dreamed of opportunity. Perhaps he could save the Captain's daughter....No, that wouldn't work, not unless he was prepared to wait for a new Captain with an actual daughter. He could kill something...hope for action and distinguish himself...yes, yes, that would be quite the thing to win back his due graces.

Jack was almost restored to perfect contentment by virtue of his ponderings along this line and his increasing certainty that such a labour would present itself. When it did, Jack would come out of it in such favour with Captain Douglas as to be considered a brick without price.

That night he slept deeply, optimism wrapped around him like a warm cloak with every hope in his heart of a heroic victory that would restore his fortunes.

He dreamt of his first violin lesson.

He was five or six, and his mother had convinced his father - gently but unassailably - that music was not simply a passive aspect of gentlemanly behaviour. The young man his mother had hired to instruct him was fine-boned and precise; Jack had feared that he would commit a clumsy error, and the secrets of making music would be barred to him forever. But in that first lesson, he had only held the violin (with no glorious bow to wield) and so escaped imagined disgrace and infamy. Later his tutor allowed him the bow and made him play the A string.

Alone, secretly, Jack had taken his instrument and picked pizzicato. It had hurt his fingers, each pad forcing the strings down hard until his palm ached, his fingers were stiff and the tips bruised, but he felt in his actions a kernel of the soaring power he had hitherto only glimpsed when listening to the music of others: knew that he would do whatever it took, suffer whatever pains, to play and play well. Jack had found the same joyful thrum reverberating through his marrow the first time he had felt the swell of deep-sea under his feet, breathed in cordite while his ears rung and stirred at the beckoning mysteries of a fresh, plump dairymaid.

He would master his present setback and regain the midshipman's mess if he laboured like Hercules to do it.

~~~

“So,” continued Billy, deeply satisfied with the rapt attention given to his story, “the Cap'n, he made his mind up to do better. 'Billy,' says he, ‘I am afraid I have been like a bear in a whore's bed these last few days, but my fortunes are changing, I can feel it within me.'

“How right he were, shipmates, how right he were, but he had no notion of how it would be. I ain't never seen no man work to master the jobs of a ship like he; every minute askin', askin' and tryin' his hand, no job left untried or undone. A fair sailor he was, even then.

“So, by now we was sailing off Nova Scotia, and we put into Halifax for to take on a spare topmast and sailcloth, t'others damaged in a stew of a dark stormy squall common in those parts. We was just squared away out of the hand of the port-master when we comes across a Frenchie warship off the Chesapeake River....

~~~

Jack rolled early from his hammock and stowed it, wondering - watch and conditions allowed - if he could manage a run up lower yards and cross topgallant yards in under five minutes - which had been his recent practice. Jack wished to be prepared for opportunity, and this might present itself in seamanship, gunnery or action, each of which required strength and skill. Jack worked, every day, at both. He was as strong and hale as a hay-fed bull.

“All hands on deck, all hands there.”

Jack flew up onto deck before the muster finished. The Captain, his cocked hat athwartships, hands clasped behind his back on the quarterdeck, was conferring with Arrowsmith, who was relaying his orders to the other Lieutenants.

Jack saw a black shape on the horizon, some three miles off. He grabbed Marrat who dropped from the foremast top. “French man o'war. Sneaking behind us. The Cap'n will engage.”

Jack needed no further report: his body was already turning to return below to the guns. He could see the marine subalterns turning about their orders and forming two lines of scarlet against the dirty white of sailcloth and blue sky which filled his eye. There was a topgallant breeze in the north-north west urging _Resolution_ on her way, bringing her closer, swiftly, to their sudden quarry.

Everywhere, shipmates stepped nimbly to store, stow and drape in readiness for action. Haversham, the third lieutenant, called for his men of the starboard watch, and Jack raced to their section of thirty-two pounders. By the time Jack was amid ships, the other gunners were at their stations, and the powder boys were running to and from the magazine.

In the acute moments of practiced activity, whilst his hands were occupied with breeching rope and pulley, Jack could hear the familiar sounds of all hands in action: the skittle of feet across the deck and the symphony of hand, sea and sail raised to a high, fine, expectant hum of fierce concentration. He could feel an answering beat in his blood: closer, closer; soon. 

The next half-glass passed in the steady, disciplined preparation that Jack had learnt to expect from Captain Douglas and which he absorbed, almost unconsciously, as the model of martial preparation that he would follow ever after. Jack rammed home shot, and then the guns were in place, powder to hand and all eyes turned in slitted stare to the square of sea visible above the gunports.

He knew that Douglas was assessing every curl of sail, every detail of the Frenchman against their own position through a thousand permutations with each relayed order. Jack imagined his stern face shadowed with the pattern of splinter netting in the crisp yellow light of the morning; he would share the calm anticipation of action of every man aboard, and he would wish for a heavy swell.

In moments, Jack felt that heavy swell under his feet and heard “Ready oh! Helm’s a lee.”

The Frenchman came into view through the ports. The _Hercule_ was a ship of the line, many of her guns on her lower tier. A single glance told him that she was crank, inclined to lie over; no doubt her bottom dragging with weeds and sea-crust such that the swell would increase her water and reduce her capacity to use her lower guns. Jack grinned and saw its twin on other faces.

Douglas would be counting on the fact that the Frenchman had not seen port or dry dock in an age and, unlike _Resolution_ , was in desperate need of a re-fit. 

Hot anticipation blossomed in Jack’s belly. If they could cut up her sails and rigging, rake her spars, they would have her. A fine prize to bring joy and reward to the men, and a decent purse for Jack to waste in port.

“Come closer, my beauty.” Jack muttered.

Close range was essential to make the _Resolution_ bite hard. Up and down the orders rang and the bosuns’ pipe sang out. Jack could only wait, tense and ready, with the other men. _Resolution_ began her turn, bringing the Frenchman closer to her broadside. Jack was heady with desire for action, glorious scenarios of victory playing out in his mind. In a few minutes they would be in range. The drums beat to quarters, and everything was in readiness; the men gazed over the guns at their enemy.

Haversham addressed them, “Make each shot count for us, fire high on the upward roll and then ball and chain…”

The first shot from the Frenchman rang out as she rolled down the swell and then Jack counted four further, at least two hit home with great shrieking tremors and there was a clutter of thuds as debris scattered back across _Resolution_.

“Fire.” The whole crew leapt forward, and Jack rammed in shot again.

Haversham took out his watch, and the crew returned fire with devastating thunder into the Frenchie’s riggings, cutting ropes and sails and bursting scarlet from flesh.

The crew’s backs were bent and their hands thickened where practice had scoured their skin into ungentle shapes from heaving on gun tackles, and Jack felt familiar, thrilling excitement hasten his actions as a minute and some seconds counted down before their next broadside. The French guns rang out again as Jack's side vision caught Mr Sutton slithering down onto the gun-deck. 

Suddenly, a splinter the size of a forearm slammed into the back of Haversham's trunk, partially separating his head from his torso. Haversham folded in on himself - it seemed so slowly - in a vacuum of cacophonous silence, his mouth still forming orders that he would never give. Then, great gouts of blood issued from the juncture of his head and shoulder, making the floor about him slippery wet. Clots sizzled on the aft gun, and the smell of boiling blood rolled across the crew. Jack wiped blood from his face.

One of the smaller powder boys, Finney, quite new to sea-life and the horrors of action, lost the contents of his stomach, and the smell deteriorated further. Another boy, Smithy, running up behind him with an over-full load of powder, went headlong over the prone, gasping Finney, and gunpowder exploded in a cloud about the two squirming bodies. 

The shriek of the present charge being issued out of the roaring cannon did not deter the crew from their tasks. Jack thrust the wooden stub to Big Billy before moving to Haversham’s place. In the same moment he gave Sutton a half-nod which encompassed the dutiful obeisance to an officer from a hand and a moment of shared recognition that whatever Billy's orders for Haversham, it should be Jack who now received them.

Able Seaman before the mast he might now be, but Jack also retained the experience of his midshipman years, and he shouted to the men: “Martin, there, sawdust” before moving Haversham aside until his body could more correctly be attended to and positioning himself where he could see both guns in the charge of his crew and receive orders from Mr Miller, the third lieutenant, when he should notice their predicament. 

Jack shouted orders and encouragement to the remaining twelve men of the gun crew as he snatched up Haversham’s timepiece; they had some forty seconds to the next return, and the carpenter was reporting to Mr Miller. Jack looked about him: the crew moved fast and sharp, almost ready and twenty seconds to go.

Smithy had by now disentangled himself from the unfortunate Finney, though not without a coating of vomit and gunpowder, leaving Finney gasping and almost crying. Smithy disappeared back towards the armory but not before slapping Finney heavily across the shoulder to remind him of his duty and to not gape at the bloody remains of Haversham.

“Come Men! There is not a moment to lose. Let us make sure these French coves do not fail to answer for Mr Haversham”. Already acting with great alacrity the crew redoubled their efforts, and Jack was sure they would be responsible for two shots within four minutes, by Jove!

“Quick’s the word and sharp's the action, maties” Jack exhorted and, indeed, Marrat pushed the wet swab into the barrel whilst Tullet poured in the remainder of the last canvas of gunpowder. In the back of his brain Jack was calculating how long it would take Smithy to return with the next charge, the crew having missed a relay of powder in Finney's shocked sprawl.

As the cloth wad was being jammed into the barrel, Jack shouted for Smithy. “Boy there, make haste!” 

He glanced by to see if there was any sign of the boy when he saw Smithy's grimy tow-head appear on his swift journey from armoury to gun deck. Jack twisted forward in time to see Big Billy ramming in the shot and Tullet, again, with the last wad. Orders leapt to Jack's throat, but the crew were already running out the carriage, and he glanced again at Smithy.

Martin had heaved Haversham to one side and poured sawdust onto the slide of crimson across the deck, but the fresh sawdust was not yet soaked when Finney, glassy-eyed but upright, slammed into Smithy who had two open-ended parchments of powder in his arms. The two stumbled and slipped, more powder arcing across the deck and Jack began to swear under his breath. It wouldn't do, not at all. Jack knew first action was hard on a lad, but each man had his place and function, and this disorder was losing their crew, and therefore the ship, the fine advantage earned by hard practice and drill.

Jack glanced to see if Mr Miller had witnessed their disarray, but he was fully distracted by the carpenter and watching his own crewman, Abel Tucker, ignite the fuse in the breech. At that moment, a crashing roar of grape-shot exploded into the upper deck caused a rain of short splinters, dust and smoke to cascade upon the hands. To a man they ducked and covered their heads before rising, momentarily, to proceed. Tucker had dipped his head as the others but had not kept his feet, and he was almost immediately jarred by a trip against the breech rope. He dropped the linstock. He snatched it back up but not before a spark fell onto the deck.

Before fifteen or so horrified eyes the spark cracked and popped, catching a speck or two of powder residue from their own gun. 

Tucker leapt to stamp it out but the first unfortunate collision of Smithy and Finney had spread powder in a thin film edged by still-dry sawdust, and this, too, ignited, hissing and spitting a whip-narrow trail of impossible light towards the gobbed clumps of black silt from the second collision, too close to the loaded gun. Now stamping out would only spread the volatile powder further. Jack felt his stomach drop to his toes and his heart throw into his ribs; this horror must be mirrored on the faces of the other men if only he could look away from their bright doom as it slithered towards them.

Without thought, without anything in his brain except stark, stumbling instinct Jack reached down his hands and unbuttoned his breeches...

~~~~

“ _My apologies, Mr Miller, sir_ ,’ says he” – at this point Big Billy was hardly able to choke out the words, so crowded were they by laughter in his throat- “ _but I hardly knew where to lay my hand on any other liquid._ ”

The assorted hands had earned their guffaws through patient listening, and it was a relief to break their voluntary quiet with loud laughter and hearty amusement. It took some moments for the shared laughter and ribald commentary to subside, and Big Billy rubbed his ribs as though it pained him somewhat to enjoy himself so much.

Not to be robbed of all glory, Archie finished the tale: “And old Captain Douglas restored Lucky Jack's fortunes for saving the day and off he popped back to the midshipman's mess, none the worse for having tallied with us hands. Afore he went I took him aside and ‘ _Spew_ ,’ I says (for I could not resist it, for the last time), ‘ _you be as rich as Crocus in good fortune, so mayhaps we will call you Lucky Jack hereafter and never more Spew. But you remember Spew, now, for he had to learn a powerful lesson before his luck turned_.’ And he looked me in the eye and clasped my arm, all friendly like, and said, ‘ _Well, this surely has been a precious rum go in any event, Tullet, and I'll not easily forget it. Henceforth, I will be as brisk as a bee in a bottle and not parade my errors before the Captain_.’

“And, do you know, he never did. Not where the Captain could see, like.”

The voices drifted desultorily on the warm evening breeze until Stephen, alone in his quarters, could no longer hear. He allowed himself some two or three moments of broad grinning before he schooled his features and made his way to the Captain's table to dine.

The End

  
  



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